Split(23)

“Would it be all right if I left something for Mr. Jennings on his desk?”

“Sure.” I motion toward my dad’s office. “Have at it.”

He nods, then shuffles to the office where he must drop off something small. I didn’t see him with anything in his hands when he got here. Before I know it, he’s passing me, headed for the front door and rubbing the back of his neck.

Maybe it’s his mysterious demeanor or the fact that we share a common loss, but I’m not ready to see him go.

“What is it?” I blurt the question, grateful when he stops just shy of the door.

He turns to me and my heart stupidly thunders in my chest. “What?”

“What did you drop off? Just, ya know, so I can tell Nash.” Smooth, Shyann.

He seems taken aback. “A mock-up.”

“Mock-up for what?”

His jaw tightens as if my questions are irritating, and I wonder if my irrational desire to know more about him is coming off as annoying and nosy.

The groan of a truck kicking up dirt filters into the office. I peer out the window just as my dad slides from the driver’s side.

“Looks like you’ll be able to give it to him yourself.” I turn back to the filing cabinet as the heavy footfalls of my dad’s boots hit the threshold. And for some unexplainable reason, I’m thankful my dad’s presence will force him to stay.





LUCAS


She’s Nash’s daughter.

And I’ve seen her naked!

Even imagined myself with her naked.

This is so wrong.

I clear my throat and force myself to breathe through my desire to run. The office isn’t small, but this girl seems to take up all the air in the room. Her presence has me edgy, her shocking blue eyes are impossible to hold, and the way she tilts her head to study me feels like she can see through to my soul. She’s pushy and forward, a complete contrast to the girl I saw last night. That girl had been vulnerable both physically and emotionally, and the strength I see in her now makes my skin prickle. If I were a stronger man, I’d confess what I saw, apologize for intruding on her private moment. But I’m not.

“Lucas.” Mr. Jennings’s gaze moves around the space and I realize his daughter has his exact same eyes, but whereas his are intimidating, hers are probing. “Wow, look at this place.” He studies the brunette with a knowing grin and she rolls her eyes. “Can see the desk again.”

“Four years of college and I’m pushing paper.” She huffs and shoves a file into a drawer with enough force to crinkle the pages.

His lips twitch as he swings his gaze to me. “I assume you met my daughter, Shy.”

Interesting name for a girl who is anything but.

I pull my hat off and nod. “Sir, yes, we met.”

“Shy, this is Lucas.” Mr. Jennings motions to me and her eyes follow.

“Lucas.” She says my name as if she’s tasting it on her tongue.

My pulse pounds in my neck. I need to get away from her, from the feelings her presence evokes.

I take a step toward the door. “I dropped the mock-up on your desk.”

“No shit.” His eyebrows rise. “Done already?” He doesn’t wait for my response but heads the few yards back to his office and returns with my sketch in his hand. He unfolds and studies the page. “Sheezus, son . . . this is good.”

Pride swells in my chest and I force my eyes to the floor to avoid them seeing my smile. “Thank you, sir.”

“What is it?” Shyann’s light steps move across the room. “Holy shit . . .”

“Shy, can you go a day without cussin’?” The disappointment I hear in his voice calls my eyes to her, expecting to see the familiar expression of dejection that every child feels when scorned by a parent, but she appears calm. Confident even.

“All I’m saying is this is some good shit, Dad.” She curls her full lips between her teeth as if fighting a smile while her dad ignores her.

Brave. I’d be terrified to talk back to a man like Mr. Jennings.

“Good work, Lucas.” He shakes out the loose-leaf page. “This’ll look great in wood.”

His daughter’s probing glare comes to me and my chest tightens. “Wood? You carve this into wood?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Her eyes narrow. “Shyann.”

“Shyann.” Heat warms my neck. I attempt to drop my gaze, but it’s as if it’s drawn to hers by some magnetic force.

The walls seem to close in on us, the surrounding air becoming almost too thick to breathe. The same need from last night stirs deep in my gut. It’s new and so forbidden it makes me nauseous and excited in equal parts.

Her cheeks take on a pink that stands out against her olive skin, and again I wonder what it would feel like against my hand, my chest, my lips. The thought evokes images that I feel in the front of my jeans.

I blink, breaking our bond, and with a full, deep breath I step back. “Better go,” I whisper, and nod before turning away.

My stomach roils with the tinge of regret for rudely running off, but unnerved, I have to get some space. More air. Clear my head.

In the couple months I’ve been here, I’ve managed to keep my emotions in check and Shyann Jennings is threating to take down everything I’ve worked so hard to build. This stability and assuredness she projects doesn’t match the woman in the creek last night. I push her out of my mind and resolve to keep her there. But my head struggles with a single question I can’t seem to let go.